


A Voyage Begins

by Arbryna



Series: Endless Wonder (and Dragons) [1]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Warehouse 13
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, F/F, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-28
Updated: 2012-08-28
Packaged: 2017-11-13 01:51:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/498122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arbryna/pseuds/Arbryna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shipwrecked and stranded in Kirkwall, a certain former pirate captain must rely on all the help she can get. Sometimes it's a pain, but sometimes...sometimes she finds exactly the help she needs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Voyage Begins

“You owe us, Helena.” 

_Bollocks._ Helena sets down her drink, running a calloused fingertip around the rim of the clay tumbler. She doesn’t look up—doesn’t need to. She’d know that overgrown man-child’s petulant whine anywhere. “Given the quality of the information you gave me,” she says slowly, deliberately, her voice edged with steel, “I daresay _you_ owe _me_.”

The priceless Qunari relic Lucky and his boys had tipped Helena off about turned out to be an insufferably long piece of Antivan erotica about a young, naive girl learning how to “submit to the Qun”. That’s the only thing vaguely Qunari about it, and Helena highly doubts there’s even a grain of truth in it. She grew up in Rivain—she knows a little something about the Qunari, and she’s fairly certain they don’t walk their lovers around on leashes. She doesn’t even think they _have_ lovers, actually, as depressing a thought as that is.

To top it off, it’s terribly written. Helena has produced better smut while actually simultaneously having sex—drunk, even. It’s quite possibly the single most worthless piece of intelligence—and fiction—she has ever received, and really, applying the word “intelligence” when discussing anything related to Lucky and his goons is rather disingenuous. 

They are stubborn, though, she has to grant them that. Lucky decides to test the validity of his name by reaching for her arm, and if Helena didn’t pity the poor sod so, he’d lose that hand within seconds. As it is, he cries out in pain as she grabs his wrist, lightning-fast; the crunch of bone is audible over the din of tavern music and scattered conversation. Her grip loosens as she shoves him away, smirking as he barely manages to steady himself on a nearby table.

“Bitch,” Lucky snarls, drawing a battered sword over his shoulder with his remaining good hand. “You’ll pay for that.”

Helena sighs, swinging around on the bar stool and lowering her feet to the floor. “I won’t be paying for anything, darling,” she remarks, shooting him a pitying smirk as she reaches up to her shoulders to close her fingers around the twin daggers sheathed there. “That was rather my point.”

She doesn’t want to kill Lucky. He’s not the one she’s after—he’s not the reason she’ll never see her precious daughter smile again, the one she’s spent nearly a decade plotting her vengeance against. Lucky’s just a poor sod who’s gotten himself in the middle of a situation he has no chance of understanding. 

She doesn’t want to kill him, but she won’t hesitate to do so if it becomes necessary—a fact that becomes clear to him as she easily takes his buddies out of the fight. The indignant anger he displayed over the injury of his wrist turns to fury as he sees first one, then two friends knocked aside by a slight woman whom Helena is sure he thought to be harmless up to this point. He lunges at her, sword raised, only to find her blade at his throat in the blink of an eye. 

Fear and panic flash through his eyes, but Helena scarcely notices; her focus is on his pulse pounding visibly against the sharp steel of her dagger, on the heaving of his chest, the trembling of his arm—all incontrovertible proof that he is alive. This worthless man is alive, and her daughter is ashes in the wind. Grief and rage swell in her chest, nearly choking her with their potency. All it would take is a flick of her wrist and he would be nothing more than a corpse lying in a pool of blood at her feet. If her Christina can’t live in this world, he certainly doesn’t deserve to.

The sounds of the tavern are muted, drowned out by her heart beating relentlessly in her ears. This feeling is one she thought she had grown used to, learned how to control, but all of a sudden it is raw and new once more, and she finds herself struggling to remember all of the reasons killing him would be a bad idea.

Her hand doesn’t shake; she feels like it should.

“Leave, Lucky,” Helena manages to force out past the thickness in her throat. “Before your name ceases to lose all meaning.”

Lucky wastes no time backing away, scrambling around her toward the door. He doesn’t spare so much as a backward glance at his companions, who curse his name as they pull themselves to their feet and rush to follow, careful never to turn their backs to the formidable pirate queen. 

Despite her unsteadiness, Helena can’t fight the smug grin that spreads across her lips, so she doesn’t even try. She’s never found any compelling reason to be humble about her strengths, and she does so enjoy making a man cower before her. The satisfaction of her victory is almost enough to drown out the flood of emotions that rose so easily in her—the vile stuff passing for whiskey will have to do the rest.

She’s about to reach for her mug again when she notices the group of newcomers that must have arrived during the fight. There are four of them, all looking bedraggled, as though they just got done with a fight of their own. A pale, scowling elf is trying his best to look unassuming, although the stark white lines tattooed in his skin have a way of drawing attention to him. On the other side of the group, a mocha-skinned City Guardsman stands with her arms folded over her chest, staring intently at Helena—no, not at her, _around_ her, tracing Helena’s outline with her eyes as though reading the words in a book. Unnerving, really. 

The only one she recognizes is Pete, the jovial dwarf she’s seen often since she arrived in Kirkwall. They both have rooms here at the Hanged Man, and she can’t count the number of times she’s wandered down into the tavern for a drink only to find him surrounded by patrons as he regales them with tales of such preposterous skill and bravery that they can’t possibly be true. 

None of them capture her attention so much as the last, however: tall and slim, with brown hair pulled tightly back with a leather cord—save for a few unruly curls that have escaped to frizz around her face—and a sword strapped to her back that’s got to be taller than she is. She’s not ten feet tall, and probably couldn’t tear a man’s head from his shoulders with her bare hands, but there’s no mistaking it: this is the woman from Pete’s stories.

For a moment, Helena finds herself thinking she may have been mistaken about the truth of those tales. If anyone could perform such feats as those the dwarf describes, it would be this woman, whose very stance and demeanor exude confidence and power—and who is currently staring openly as Helena slides her daggers back into their sheaths. 

“Enjoy the show, then?” Helena asks, her smirk growing as the warrior’s cheeks flush at being caught. She leans back against the bar, raising her mug to her lips to take a long swig of bitter alcohol, and doesn’t miss the way those moss-green eyes follow the movement. “Watch yourself, darling. The men in here won’t hesitate to make you their next target, even if you do have a big sword.”

“I think I can take care of myself,” is the response, a wry smile playing at the corners of full lips.

Helena takes her time raking her eyes over the warrior’s toned form, humming appreciatively as her eyes trace the well-defined muscles in arms left bare by makeshift leather armor. “Yes, you certainly look like you can. I’m Helena, by the way,” she offers, giving a playful little bow that she knows emphasizes her cleavage just enough. “Captain Helena, if you want the full glory of it, but sadly it doesn’t have the same ring to it without my ship.” 

She tries to ignore the sharp pang in her chest at the thought. Watching the last broken pieces of the _Christina_ sink into the Waking Sea was like losing her daughter all over again, which is likely why she had to struggle to control herself with Lucky. With a shake of her head, Helena tamps down her grief and focuses on the warrior whose eyes linger on her with perhaps more than just curiosity. “And who might you be?”

“Myka Hawke,” said warrior responds, her blush growing more furious at the brazen interest in Helena’s gaze. 

“Ah, the infamous Hawke,” Helena says. She knew full well who Myka was before she asked, but it is nice to have a first name to go along with the near-legendary last. “I might have guessed. You’ve got that ragged Fereldan look about you. Except your eyes—there’s fire in those eyes, even if it doesn’t come shooting out to incinerate your foes,” she finishes with a sardonic smile. 

“I see someone’s been busy.” Myka glares down at Pete, smacking him in the shoulder with the back of her hand. “And talkative.”

Pete just gives Myka a roguish grin, holding his hands up in defense.

Helena chuckles. “I wouldn’t be terribly upset with him, darling. He paints a flattering picture of you—though I daresay it can’t compare to the real thing.” 

Then it’s as though something clicks in Myka’s head, and she lets out a dry laugh, shaking her head as her eyes turn toward the ceiling. “I should have known. What exactly is it you want me to do?” The question is asked in an exasperated way that suggests that Myka is accustomed to people asking favors of her—which, Helena supposes, must be true, if she’s done half the things Pete has credited her with. 

Oh, but there are other reasons to flirt with her, reasons as simple and satisfying as the flush, nearly gone from her face, that comes rushing back as Helena steps closer. “Oh, Myka, there are a great many things you could do for me,” Helena purrs, careful not to touch, not yet. When she hears Myka’s breath catch, she smirks and steps back just a bit, giving Myka room to regain her composure. “But come to think of it, there is a small matter in which I could use your assistance.” 

Helena doesn’t usually like to depend on others, but the man who inspired her need for revenge is powerful, and has many allies at his beck and call—she won’t turn down any advantage, even when dealing with one of his lesser cronies. That, and it certainly wouldn’t be a burden to get a bit closer to this intriguing woman.

Myka sighs, her shoulders slumping in resignation. “And what would this assistance entail?”

“Hardly anything you’re unaccustomed to,” Helena says, a smile slipping onto her lips. She expected to have to do a lot more convincing. “I’ve arranged a duel with a man named Hayder, and I could use a bit of muscle to ensure he plays fair.”

“A duel.” Myka eyes Helena in disbelief. “You took care of those men just fine, and that was three on one. Why bother with a duel?”

“Well, it’s only sporting to let him think he’s got a chance,” Helena says with a grin. “Besides, he’s not exactly one to play by the rules. That’s why I need you.” 

A long beat passes in silence as Myka ponders her request. Helena is startled to find herself more invested in Myka’s answer than she should be; disconcerting at best, considering they’ve just met. She tilts her head, puts a little more flirt in her grin, raises an eyebrow expectantly; she’d never let such vulnerability show. 

"I think I could manage to back you up," Myka finally says, the smile teasing at her lips softening the grudging tone of her voice. 

Helena chuckles warmly, letting her gaze linger on Myka’s crossed arms, muscles gently flexing as Myka fidgets. "Oh, I'm certain you could, darling," she says, a little thrill sparking in her chest at the way Myka’s eyes flash dark at the insinuation. She almost feels like her old self again, powerful and seductive and carefree. It wouldn’t do to waste this feeling, so Helena revels in it, leans close enough that her breath brushes over Myka’s lips. "But let's take care of Hayder first, shall we?"

Myka swallows hard, licks her lips almost unconsciously. A dull nod is all the answer Helena needs.

To Helena’s delight, Myka proves herself to be an impressive swordsman, and even better company. Hayder is dealt with easily, with minimal injury on their part, and Helena surprises herself by extending an invitation for Myka to join her back in her room at the Hanged Man—something she has not indulged in since her ship crashed against the rocks along the Wounded Coast. She’s been too caught up in her grief, and her mad plans for revenge…but Myka has promise, Myka could undoubtedly serve to distract Helena from her anguish, at least for a night.

It’s unnerving how disappointed she is when Myka doesn’t show up.

  
_end._   



End file.
